


Unique Reality

by Elvendork



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 15:28:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos has never met anybody quite like Cecil before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unique Reality

**Author's Note:**

> Oops I accidentally did a fic...
> 
> No seriously this was supposed to be a drabble about my Cecil headcanons that I would probably never post. (For the record I love all the headcanons I've seen, I just wanted to develop my own, which sort of scavenges from a few others as well).
> 
> And then this happened.
> 
> I don't own Night Vale and there is a distinct lack of appropriate weirdness here because I'm really not suited to writing this sort of thing but I couldn't help myself.

Carlos has never met anybody quite like Cecil before, because even in Night Vale, where if only six impossible things occur before breakfast it’s a dull day, people are still generally just people. They – usually, at least – have the expected number of limbs and eyes and internal organs and they all seem to work in a relatively normal way.

Well, okay, sometimes people develop extra heads or give birth to disembodied hands, but still; at least eighty percent of the population is born with relatively ordinary human biology. Maybe seventy five, sixty at a minimum. That’s not the point. The point is, Cecil is different. Carlos is not sure if he was born different or if it developed along the way; he suspects the latter but really, he has no actual evidence for this, it just seems to fit. Not that _evidence_ is a concept familiar to most Night Valeans.

The point. The point is that Cecil is…The point is Cecil. And really that sentence sums up too much of his Night Vale experience for Carlos to be entirely comfortable.

Right. Cecil: He is slightly shorter than Carlos and slightly slimmer. His skin is the colour of strong tea and his hair is, Carlos thinks, naturally black, but either he dyes it a lot or it just… _changes_ …because sometimes it is blonde and sometimes it is red and sometimes it is purple. His eyes are usually brown. Ish. More golden, really, occasionally yellow, once green. He has never – that Carlos has seen – developed any extra body parts, unless his tattoos count, and Carlos can’t quite decide on that one because they aren’t technically _part_ of his body, really, if they’re just ink (Carlos doubts it) but they also – they also move. And glow. And change colour. They don’t appear to depict anything in particular; they are more or less just lines, curls and tendrils that snake up his arms and across his shoulder blades and usually they are a sort of metallic blue-green-purple, whose shade – Carlos learns gradually – shifts subtly with his mood.

So. No missing or additional appendages, but eyes that may or may not be modified by contact lenses, hair that may or may not be dyed, and potentially bioluminescent, definitely moving tattoos, none of which, in Night Vale, appears to be worthy of note to anyone but Carlos.

(In fact, Carlos has a working hypothesis that Cecil is like this _because_ of Night Vale – that he developed these strange chameleon tendencies as a result of being Night Vale’s almost literal _Voice_ ; he became so absorbed in the town, and the town in turn became so absorbed into him, that he started to take on physical traits that somehow reflected it. It’s just a theory, and it makes very little sense. But things that _do_ make sense have long been a thing of the past, and Carlos is surprisingly okay with this.)

All of this, though, is a distraction. The real reason Carlos has never met anyone like Cecil before has little to do with his physical appearance and a lot to do with his beliefs. Or rather, one particular belief, because refusing to acknowledge the existence of mountains or accepting invisible, teleporting buildings or civilisations hidden under the bowling alley without blinking an eye is pretty much a staple in Night Vale anyway.

Carlos has never met anyone who _idolises_ him the way Cecil does. He has rarely met anyone who idolises _anyone_ that way; once the initial burst of blind worship wears off, everyone always starts to see the flaws in their heroes, _everyone_ finds something that annoys them or offends them or just that proves the object of their affection is not – has never been – perfect.

Cecil is not like that. The more Cecil learns about Carlos, the more devoted he becomes. It is flattering, in a way, and it is also the most frightening thing Carlos has encountered in his life, up to and including every other discovery he has made in Night Vale.

Carlos has been called handsome before. He has never really believed it and rarely thought it important. He has been called smart; sometimes he has believed that and he certainly thinks it is important. He has not been called brave, except once, scathingly, when he announced his intention of moving to Night Vale. He has not considered himself brave, and still doesn’t; just too curious for his own good.

He barely notices Cecil’s praise at first, lost as it is in the background insanity of the town that takes up all of his available intention. Then, when he does, he suspects it is in mockery. Eventually he accepts that perhaps – _perhaps_ – Cecil is being sincere, and feels a strange rush of pleasure and embarrassment which is quickly swamped by the fear that as soon as Cecil actually gets to know him, he will realise his mistake.

Cecil fascinates him, though, in a way that has nothing – or little, at least – to do with his changing appearance and blasé acceptance of the perils and madness of his hometown. Cecil is the only constant thing in Night Vale, and Carlos finds himself clinging to that because when a lifetime’s worth of scientific study and knowledge comes crashing down around his ears, he needs _some_ sort of support to prevent himself getting crushed beneath it all. Cecil is the last place he would have looked for that support, but he is the first place he finds it.

So he takes to calling Cecil more and more often. He takes to going out for coffee with Cecil to discuss the impossible, unbelievable, everyday events of Night Vale, expecting to be mocked or pitied for his confusion and finding something else entirely. He finds a strange, incredible, ridiculous and somehow _endearing_ man who is willing to listen to absolutely anything he says, who is a very different person to the one on the radio. Cecil loses all his slightly sinister eloquence and smooth, professional calm when he is around Carlos. Carlos doesn’t know what to make of it. He has never had that effect on anyone before, and it seems egotistical to think he might be having it now, but he would have to be both blind and deaf not to see that Cecil can barely string a coherent sentence together when they talk. Later – much later, after Carlos has been in Night Vale for almost a whole year and has worked out a sort of pattern in the changing hues of Cecil’s tattoos – he notices that they blush red whenever Carlos says anything that might almost be construed as a compliment. They even turn faintly pink whenever Carlos says Cecil’s _name_ , and although it takes Old Woman Josie to point it out, eventually Carlos learns that there is a lot less purple to them when Carlos is not around at all.

It’s alarming, and exhilarating, and Carlos is terrified of spoiling it and even more terrified of letting it continue. Cecil _worships_ him; Carlos sometimes thinks that Cecil would do anything he asked, and having that much power over another person without even _trying_ is not something he can adjust to as easily as to hearing about five-headed dragons arrested for fraud and running for Mayor. Those other Night Vale things are…they’re just _things_ , but Cecil is a person – for all intents and purposes a perfectly ordinary person who has merely adapted to a lifetime of perfectly extraordinary events. He is not a person of middle grounds; he does not do compromise or moderation, at least when it comes to his own emotions. He either loves or hates so completely, so absolutely and so _quickly_ , that it takes up every part of his being for however long he feels it, and given his staggering _loyalty_ , that is usually a very long time indeed. In fact, Carlos has yet to discover a limit. Cecil is stubborn and passionate and when he throws himself into something he does it with everything he has.

Carlos wishes he could do the same, but he has a natural hesitation that Cecil seems to lack entirely. Carlos needs to think about things before he acts, and Cecil does not. Carlos needs time to adjust to new developments, especially emotional ones; Cecil does not. Carlos is afraid; Cecil is not. Carlos is not sure Cecil has ever been afraid; maybe people in Night Vale _can’t_ be – Carlos isn’t sure how else they would survive, or perhaps fear is just such a constant for them that it has long since stopped meaning anything.

He mentions this to Cecil once, sometime after their fifth date while they are curled together on Cecil’s sofa. Cecil looks genuinely confused; his eyes go wide and his tattoos writhe across his arms with grey shadows chasing along their delicate lines as though they have been covered over by clouds.

‘Of course I’ve been afraid,’ he says, frowning as though Carlos should know this. It’s such a familiar expression that Carlos can’t help but smile. There must still be some doubt on his face though, because Cecil pushes away from him and his honey-coloured eyes fix onto Carlos with shocking intensity.

‘You didn’t seem that bothered by the dinosaur attack last week, or when the librarians escaped, or that black goo –’

‘Of course I wasn’t scared of _those_ things,’ says Cecil dismissively, waving his hand as though to brush away these minor inconveniences and then resting it against Carlos’s cheek. His tattoos flush briefly violet at the contact, then return to storm-cloud grey, twisting as though in discomfort. His eyes literally darken.

‘Well then –’ Carlos’s voice cracks and he has to clear his throat; Cecil is moving his thumb across his cheekbone and it is _very_ distracting. ‘What _are_ you afraid of?’

Cecil sighs.

‘Carlos, my perfect Carlos…Have you forgotten already?’ He pauses, considering this, then his tone sharpens. ‘Did the Secret Police – have you had your memories modified, Carlos? Have you –’

‘No, nothing like that, I’m fine, honestly – but forgotten _what_?’ The faintest inkling of an idea is forming in the back of Carlos’s mind, but no; it can’t be that. It _can’t_ be – for all the attention and love that Cecil pours onto Carlos, for all his declarations of undying dedication, he _cannot_ be about to claim that – _that_ was more frightening to him than animal carcasses raining from the sky or the constant threat of kidnap by the Secret Police or –

‘You almost _died_ , Carlos. I thought you _had_ died. How can you think I’ve never been afraid?’

Oh. _Oh_.

Carlos should have seen this coming. He should have – he should – his breath hitches and he finds he can’t string a full thought together. His eyes suddenly feel hot and wet and – _no_ , he can’t, he _can’t_ be the one responsible for putting that expression on Cecil’s face – he looks hurt and guilty and _nervous_ – how can he have ever thought Cecil didn’t feel fear? Cecil, who feels everything else more deeply than anyone Carlos has ever known, to whom “love” is something so massive that the word is wholly inadequate to describe it. Cecil who holds grudges deeply and for _years_ but who will defend who and what he cares about viciously and at the slightest provocation, who does not know the meaning of the term _middle ground_.

‘I’m sorry,’ gasps Carlos, because it isn’t what he really means but he doesn’t know how to say what he means and wouldn’t have the breath for it anyway, doesn’t think there are words for it in any language. ‘I’m sorry, Cecil, I –’

‘Don’t cry, Carlos, please don’t – please stop crying – what did I do? Did I do something wrong? Did I –’

‘No, no, it’s not you – well it _is_ but – no, no, not like that, I didn’t mean it like that!’ He grabs Cecil’s hand, which had been moving away from his face with sudden panic, and holds it tightly enough that it hurts both of them and neither of them care. _God_ but they are both so terrible at speaking to each other, it would be a wonder they had managed to make it this far even without the multitude of other challenges Night Vale throws at them every day.

‘I mean – I meant – I’m just surprised, that’s all. Not that – I don’t mean I didn’t think – I know you care about me,’ Carlos says, determined to get this sorted out and to wipe that _look_ off Cecil’s face. ‘I thought…I don’t know what I thought. I suppose it just never occurred to me that you would be scared of – well, scared of my death but…not your own.’ Carlos cringes, because that was a ridiculous thing to say and he has no proof, not the slightest indication, that Cecil doesn’t fear his own death and to just…to just _presume_ that his own life –

‘You’re real,’ Cecil shrugs, ‘I’m not entirely certain that I am. Or that anyone else is – except when I’m with you.’

What is Carlos supposed to say to that?

‘You really thought I’d never been afraid?’ Cecil continues, incredulously.

‘I wasn’t sure,’ Carlos admits.

‘Have you? Been afraid?’ Carlos isn’t sure whether Cecil is asking because he thinks he is expected to or if he is genuinely wondering. He almost laughs, then remembers that Cecil has no concept of how strange and terrifying Night Vale actually is, and simply nods.

‘All the time,’ he says, then because Cecil can be very literal, ‘well not _all_ the time. But a lot.’

‘Right now?’

Carlos swallows, and is honest. ‘Very,’ he says.

‘Me too,’

‘Really?’

Cecil nods, and his tattoos blush. His eyes flicker green. Carlos feels a rush of something so strong it almost sets his eyes to watering again, and he wonders if this is how Cecil feels all the time; it’s affection, admiration, awe and disbelief and panic all at once. He thinks it might be called love, but surely that word is far too small to encompass something this _huge_?

They are both quiet for a very long time. Then, at long last, Carlos speaks, barely more than a whisper. He realises they have somehow ended up resting their foreheads together, eyes closed, and he has no desire to ever move from this spot again.

‘I think you’re real,’ Carlos says. ‘I don’t know about me, and I definitely wouldn’t bet on the rest of Night Vale, but I think you are. Or maybe I just hope you are. But even if you’re not – even if you’re a hallucination or a dream…I don’t ever want to wake up, if it means you’ll disappear.’

Cecil doesn’t reply straight away. If Carlos opened his eyes, he would see that Cecil’s – now staring in wonder at Carlos’s face – are the deepest golden they have ever been, and his tattoos are their darkest red. He can feel Cecil’s heart rate practically double, and Cecil’s vain attempts to control his breathing.

‘Do you mean that?’ Cecil whispers eventually, and he actually holds his breath waiting for an answer.

‘More than I’ve ever meant anything in my life.’

Cecil doesn’t reply to that. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and presses his lips to Carlos’s forehead gently – so very, _very_ gently, as if he isn’t sure he is allowed, as if doing so might somehow break Carlos or mean he really _isn’t_ here after all. It is the first time, Carlos realises with a jolt of surprise, that Cecil has initiated a kiss. He tips his head up, trying desperately not to cry at the sheer amount of overwhelming, indescribable emotion washing over him, and presses their lips together softly.

He has a lot more that he wants to say, but finds he doesn’t need to say any of it. He has a lot of questions he wants to ask Cecil, but soon discovers he already knows the answers. Cecil has confused and baffled Carlos for over a year but only now does he realise – Cecil is the only thing in Night Vale that makes sense, even when he absolutely doesn’t. Carlos _understands_ him, and what’s more, Cecil understands Carlos.

_That_ is why Cecil is unlike anyone Carlos has ever met before.

Carlos smiles.


End file.
